Sunlight slipped through the curtains, and Dean flinched away, trying to keep his grip on sleep. He rolled over, planning in his sleep-muddled way, to wrap himself around Cas and slip back to sleep. The bed was empty.

Dean opened his eyes. He could hear faint music from Kurt’s room, something with a badass baseline and chick vocals. Just under the music he could hear someone clattering about the kitchen. Dean hoped it was Bobby; Cas was adapting real well to dealing with hunger, but the dude just did not get food, asking for all kind of weird shit like figs on pizza. Dean wasn’t quite sure what a fig was, but he was damned sure it didn’t belong on a pizza.

With a groan, Dean tossed the covers back, searching the ground for something to wear, coming up with a pair of boxers that he wasn’t sure who wore last, but they passed the sniff test and, well, considering the--heh--intimacies--he and Cas had been sharing, wearing the other’s boxers seemed small in comparison.

Dean paused, boxers half up his legs, as he remembered some of those intimacies. He grinned, tongue just coming out to poke at his lip, and dressed with a little shimmy. Maybe he could convince Cas to leave breakfast for later. He grabbed a flannel shirt on his way out the door, just in case Bobby was up. He wouldn’t want to blind him with his awesome.

Sure enough, it was Cas in the kitchen wearing Dean’s pants (so that’s where they went! Dean stopped for a moment to appreciate the way Cas’s ass looked in his pants), and making something on the stove. The kitchen smelled like coffee and onions, and Dean really hoped that that meant Cas made coffee and omelets, and not coffee omelets. Somebody really needed to take Cas aside and explain food to him.

As Dean entered the kitchen, spotting the percolator on the stove (thank God), he heard Cas humming under his breath. It wasn’t any song Dean recognized, but the bluesy longing in the melody suited Cas’s voice well.

Dean slipped up behind Cas, wrapping his arms around his lover’s waist and kissing the back of his neck. Cas leaned back into the touch, but didn’t stop his humming.

“Hm. Kurt has been kind enough to share his music with me. I heard it yesterday and it is lodged in my brain.”

“Stuck in your head.”

“Yes. That is what I said.” Cas reached for a place to dish up the omelet, and Dean back away to sit. “We got a whole lot of money, but we’re still paying rent. Because you can’t buy a house in heaven.” Dean’s eyes opened wide. He knew what song that was. Cas gave him his omelet, but Dean could only stare. “It always interests me to hear human interpretations of Heaven. I find her lyrics to be surprisingly apt.”

“Gaga?” Dean choked out. “You’re singing Gaga?”

“That is her name, yes,” Cas said. “Though Kurt called her “Mama Monster.” I think he appreciates the irony of being a Hunter and part of a fan base called “Little Monsters” at the same time.”

Cas poured Dean a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. “Here,” Cas said. “You’re usually more responsive than this. Maybe this will help?”

Blindly, Dean took the mug, drinking deep though the coffee scorched his tongue. The pain grounded him. He knew what he had to do.

“Kurt!” he called. “Get down here!”

There was a moment, then Kurt sashayed down the stairs, and Dean knew, he knew, that the little shit planned this--this betrayal.

Dean covered his face with his hand, watching through his fingers as Cas cocked his head at Gabriel and Dean almost had to smirk. He knew the difference between Cas’s head-tilts, now, and this one was Cas’s “playing dumb” head-tilt. But Dean was pissed, so he couldn’t laugh. “Kurt played some music for me. I found myself quite entranced.”

Kurt leaned back against the counter, coffee mug cradled in his hands. “He was especially fond of Mama Monster.” Kurt took a sip. “And the Scissor Sisters.”

Dean looked at Kurt, to horrified to even be pissed that Gabriel was laughing so hard he was bent over. “You--!”

Dean swallowed, feeling cold sweat on the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Kurt said.

“I’d help,” Gabriel said. Dean glared, but Gabriel just smiled back.

Bobby entered the kitchen from the backyard, and stopped when everyone stared at him. “What?” Bobby said. “A man can’t enter his own home anymore?” He wiped his boots on the mat. “And what’s everybody arguing about?”

“Dean’s panties are in a twist because Cas likes Lady Gaga.”

“Oh, I like her new album,” Bobby said. Everybody turned to look at him. “Shuddup. She’s got a great voice.” Bobby shifted. “Not like I can’t kick your asses any less because I can appreciate a set of pipes.”

“Bobby,” Dean said. Bobby scowled.

“Oh, grow up, Idjit. We got bigger fish to fry.” Bobby poured the last of the coffee into a mug and sat at the table. “We need intel on that site Roman’s planning on developing. Dean, thanks for volunteering.”

“What!” Dean said. “Bobby! I--”

“Great,” Bobby said. “Take Kurt and Puck with you. Show ‘em how it’s done. There shouldn’t be anyone there, so it should be easy, and more eyes can’t hurt.”

“I’ll text Puck,” Kurt said. “Tell him not to bike in.”

“Excellent,” Bobby said, and drank from his mug. He lowered it halfway to the table. “Well?” he asked. “What are you waiting for?”

Cas stood and followed Dean back up the stairs. He heard Gabriel behind him, “You trust them alone when you know one of them will be pantsless, imminently?”

“I’m trying not to think about it,” Bobby said.

“Castiel!” Kurt called up the stairs. “Don’t touch his Disco Stick! We’re on a schedule.”

Dean stumbled, but caught himself quickly.

“But Dean,” Cas said, quietly. “I want to take a ride on your disco stick.” Dean startled, and looked at Cas in surprise. When he saw the teasing twinkle in Cas’s eye (seriously, his angel was spending too much time with Kurt), Dean sighed and grabbed Cas’s hand.

“I’ve only got one rule for this, Cas,” he said. “No Gaga in the bedroom.”

***

Jody was sleeping, coming off a stint of overnights, and Puck made sure to be extra quiet. The last thing he needed was Jody waking up and asking questions he didn’t know how to answer. All he knew was that Kurt was coming to pick him up, and that it was “best if your aunt doesn’t find out.”

Stuffing a pop-tart in his mouth, Puck went outside to wait. It was early enough to be comfortably cool, but the air had the potential to get very warm. Puck stuck his hands in his pockets, and watched the mostly empty street. Looked like the only other person up was the old man two-hands-down, who was sitting on his porch in an old bathroom, drinking coffee and reading the paper. From where he stood, Puck could see just enough to suspect the robe was all the man was wearing. Puck shuddered, and looked away. Nas-ty.

Puck heard the bass first, a distant thumping that turned into Motorhead when the Impala rounded the corner. Puck raised his eyebrows, but couldn't hide his grin as he jogged down to meet Dean and Kurt.

Dean stopped the car and Kurt got out so Puck could climb into the back. Another time he would bitch about not riding shotgun, but honestly, this was awesome.

“Dude, Motorhead?” Puck said, once Kurt was back inside.

“Dean’s attempting to either punish me or brainwash me. I’m not sure which.”

“I woke up this morning and Cas was singing Gaga,” Dean said. “That is not okay.”

“Our Glee club did a Gaga week to showcase theatricality,” Kurt said. “The girls and I fully embraced it. The other boys, however, resisted until they found a compromise with Kiss.”

“I was Ace,” Puck said. “And I rocked those whore lips,”

“Whore lips?”

“Yeah, I still don’t get it, either.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t remember Glee doing anything like that when I was at McKinley.”

Puck understood that. New Directions was unique. Wait-- “You went to McKinley?” Puck asked at the same time Kurt said;

“You were in Glee?”

“I was there for a couple months my senior year,” Dean shrugged. “We moved around too much for clubs, except for Sammy’s soccer. And by high school I was Hunting with Dad, so...” Dean laughed. “I did bang the soloist, though. Pretty little blonde thing. Even screamed on key. Her name was April,” he added with a little grin.

“Not at the same time,” Puck said. “Fuckin’ shame. Got a nice ass. And wouldn’t blab about it.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean said, stopping the car and holding up his hands. “You got busy with April Rhodes?” He grinned, and held his fist out for Puck to bump. “Rock on.”

Puck smirked, and bumped fists, grinning at the way Kurt rolled his eyes. Dean started the car again and turned the music up. Kurt crossed his arms and slumped down in the seat. Puck saw the smug grin on Dean’s face, and decided he didn’t want to get involved.

When they hit the highway, Puck couldn’t help asking: “So, where are we going?”

“Bobby wants us to check out the construction site. We get intel, you get practice.”

“Sweet,” Puck said, “Field trip!”

Kurt snorted, but Puck knew Kurt was just as excited as he was.

Dean pulled off the highway ten minutes later, and wove through the back roads until he turned onto an unmarked dirt road and shut off the music.

Puck frowned, because that sounded like Fate was a person Dean could meet. Which was ridiculous. Right?

Puck sat up from where he had been slouched over, peering through the window at the woods. There wasn’t much to see--the sun was high but the woods were old, dense and dark. The branches over the road had grown together, shading the path. The woods seemed to brighten just a bit, and Dean stopped the car. Puck looked between the seats to see out the front window, and saw an open clearing before them.

“Come on,” Dean said and got out of the car. Puck followed, climbing over Kurt’s seat, and staggered a bit before he could stand up straight. Dean opened the trunk and Puck joined Kurt to look inside.

Dean lifted the face bottom of the trunk, revealing his cache of weapons. He handed Puck a pair of binoculars and a camera, Kurt a shotgun, and took a machete for himself. “Alright,” Dean said. “From here on out, no speaking unless absolutely necessary. We’re going in, taking pictures, and leaving.” Puck nodded, putting the strap of the camera around his neck while Kurt checked over the gun. In a brief flash of old Puck, Puck wondered why Hummel got the shotgun. Puckasaurus was the badass. But it faded, and New Puck knew that Kurt was a better shot and had much more practice. But the flash had left his mark, and Puck was vaguely unsettled as they walked into the woods.

After what felt like forever, but was probably more like fifteen minutes, Dean held up a hand for them to stop, and motioned Puck forward. Puck made his way around the brush and branches. Part of the reason the walk felt so long was their slow pace; constantly stepping around plants and over fallen logs; walking was surprisingly difficult. Dean pointed through the trees at the clearing; there was a silver bullet trailer in the middle of the field. Puck raised the binoculars.

At first he couldn’t see much of anything, just the shine of sunlight off the metal. He adjusted the focus and tried again, this time making out movement in the trailer; there was someone inside. It looked like they were looking his way--and pointing--

Puck jerked back when he realized the Leviathan in the trailer had seen him. “Dean--” he said, but heard a sound behind him, and spun; a second big mouth had snuck up on Kurt and had grabbed him from behind. He had Kurt’s shotgun in one hand, the other wrapped around Kurt’s chest, his mouth hovering near Kurt’s neck. Kurt stared back at Puck with wide eyes, but Puck was frozen. There was--what could he--he had no weapon--

“Well, well,” that thing said. “Dean Winchester. And Hansel and Gretel, lost in the woods, stumbling across the gingerbread house.” Puck tensed, because he was pretty sure the big mouth had said he was a girl, and why that pissed him off when he was seconds away from pissing himself, Puck didn’t know.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Dean said. “People will talk.”

Without warning, Kurt went limp in Leviathan’s eyes, and the knife was out of Dean’s hands and--wait, knife? When did Dean get a knife?--but it didn’t matter because it had dropped Kurt, who was rolling away, grasping the shotgun as he spun, bringing it to bear as he stood.

Dean was faster, darting forward and loping its head off. Dean grabbed the head by the hair and called back, “Run!”

Puck didn’t need to be told twice; he booked it, hearing Kurt hot on his heels, and he spared a glance at the other teen as they ran--Kurt’s face was flushed and his eyes was a bit wild, but that could have been from--fuck, tree! No more staring! Puck pushed himself harder, and felt Kurt matching him. Puck nearly tripped, grumbling in his head about attack rocks, and then they were back in the Impala, Puck diving into the back, Kurt still in shotgun but this time with the head of a Leviathan in his lap

There was no room to turn around so Dean simply tossed it into reverse and backed down the drive, just as fast as they had entered. Puck couldn’t remember the road being this long before, and just when he thought it couldn’t get any longer, Dean’s tires hit asphalt and he threw the car in drive and they were off in a squeal of tires.

“Out the window,” Dean said. “Toss it, Kurt.”

Kurt rolled down the window, but balked at touching the head. “Kurt!” Dean snapped, and Kurt tossed the head, lifting with just his fingertips, but he still looked at his hands like they needed to be boiled and sterilized.

They drove on in silence for a minute, checking the rearview mirrors to no avail. Once Dean was sure they weren’t being followed, Kurt found his voice.

“You said it was a simple recon!”

“It was supposed to be,” Dean growled back.

“Of all the--” Kurt started, but cut himself off and sat back in his chair.

Dean leaned over and popped open the glove box, pulled out a wad of McDonald’s napkins, and dropped them in Kurt’s lap.

Kurt’s hands were covered in black gunk from where he had grabbed the Leviathan head. Gingerly, he picked up the napkins one by one and scrubbed, flinging each out the window once it was covered in black.

“Puck, you okay?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Puck said. Kurt scrubbed harder.

“Kurt--”

“I’m fine,” Kurt said. “Pissed if anything. I should have heard him coming. I should have--” Kurt cut himself off with a growl.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Maybe you should have, but those fucks get the drop on us all the time and we’ve been doing this a whole hell of a lot longer.”

Kurt kept his eyes on his hands. The tissues were almost gone and there was just so much black left. Kurt was fine.

Dean sighed. “We survived. We have info. Some days, that’s a freakin miracle.”

Kurt tossed the last tissue out the window. He was fine.

“Hunting is survival. As long as you live, you win.”

“It’s not good enough,” Kurt said. Dean was quiet for a moment.

“It never is,” he said. “But you make do.”

Kurt looked at his hands, saw the black embedded around his nail beds. The girls would be horrified. Well, Tina might find it cool, but--Kurt realized Dean was watching him. He sighed. He was done feeling like this. “I’m fine, Dean,” Kurt said. “I’m unhurt and we’re free. I’m fine.”

“There were two,” Puck said. “Another watching from the trailer. It saw everything.”

Kurt felt his heart skip. If Leviathan knew they were onto it, it might retaliate, hunt them down in their sleep and--

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean said, voice flat. “Leviathan knows where we are--it has since the beginning. It just doesn’t care--Doesn’t think we’re a threat.”

“And you think acting otherwise is smart?” Kurt asked, sharp. “They see us gain an advantage, they’ll squash us before we get too big.”

It was quiet in the car after that, and Kurt was so glad his manicure habit had broken him of biting his nails. Because this stress was extremely tempting, and he didn’t think anything good could come of eating Leviathan blood.

After a while, Dean turned on the radio, switching the tape to Blue Oyster Cult. A concession, then. Or an apology. And Kurt was very glad he didn’t believe in omens, because he would have freaked out, as Don’t Fear the Reaper played while they drove.

They returned just past lunchtime, and Dean went to tell Bobby what they learned, (“Fuckers are there, alright. Two of ‘em, and one nearly got Kurt. Milk run my ass!” “Calm down. Kurt’s fine.” “What were they doing?” “They had a trailer.” “And?” “And nothing. That’s all we know.” “What are they up to?”), and Kurt went to raid the refrigerator.

Nothing. There was nothing to eat, all they had was orange juice, and how were they supposed to do anything on a diet of OJ and--

Puck took the carton out of Kurt’s hand and put it down on the counter. Kurt’s hand balled into a shaking fist and--oh. He was shaking. Puck pulled Kurt into his arms and held him until Kurt felt the tremors subside. Then, Puck pulled away, poured Kurt a glass of juice and watched him drink it.

Puck took the empty cup, refilled it, gave it to Kurt, and pointed to the table. Kurt followed instructions, bemused, and watched Puck make him a sandwich. Puck never said a word and Kurt relaxed. He was fine.

Puck sat with his own sandwich, and Kurt watched Puck open his mouth to take a bite--

Kurt’s heart raced in his chest; he could feel the blood drain from his face and the room tilted alarmingly. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine.

Puck chewed, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk, eyes narrowed at Kurt. Kurt could see the question in them.

“I’m fine,” Kurt said, and forced himself to take another bite.

***

To say things had settled by early August wouldn’t be true; Puck had settled into a routine--get up, go to Bobby’s, study, lunch with Kurt, training, dinner, research or stories, home--but the tension at the salvage yard only grew as summer inched by and the Leviathans stayed out of sight.

“It’s like they know,” Dean said one morning in early August. Puck was sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table, books spread before him. He had an English to Latin dictionary, a grammar book, Ye Booke of Olde and Nice Prohesye, and a notebook. Puck looked up, and pushed his glasses up his nose. He had started wearing them again for these morning study sessions after the third day when his morning eyestrain had affected his aim on the shooting range; Kurt’s frankly approving once over didn’t hurt either.

Dean sat in the chair across from puck, mug of coffee in one hand, and flung the paper onto the table with the other. “They know we know they know, so they’re waiting us out.”

“Funk out,” Puck nodded. “It’s a good tactic.” He paused, thinking of the last “funk out” he had faced. “I don’t think singing George Clinton for them is gonna cut it, though.”

Dean frowned at Puck. “What?”

“Glee thing,” Puck said. “Last time we faced a Funk out, we sang “We Want the Funk” at them, proving that while they might be soulless automatons with epic choreography, we’ve got soul, and therefore can dominate an entire genre of music they can’t touch.”

“Does everything come back to Glee with you?” Dean asked.

Puck paused, thinking. It was a running joke in Glee that all serious emotion had to be expressed through song, but Puck was beginning to think it was more than that; everything was expressed through song. Even things that may be better left unsaid. He had started to think in lyrics, and when he couldn’t find a song that fit, there was always a mash-up. “Yeah,” he said, slowly. “I really think it does.”